does it matter?
by i m a g i n e dream b e
Summary: Everything is normal again. Except it's not. Contains adult themes.


A/N: I don't own anything. This is based off the random prompt generator's prompt: "You would have thought that would have made it all better. But it didn't."

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_Does it matter?  
…For people will always be kind,  
And you need not show that you mind…_

Does it Matter- Siegfried Sassoon.

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The first time it happens, you've called him a girl and pushed him lightly away from you. You're in an argument, and things are getting heated.

Naturally, he doesn't appreciate that comment, or the action accompanying it, and things kind of escalate from there. And soon he's throwing things at your head, and they're hitting you all over, and he's pummeling you, proving to you that he's not a girl.

It hurts. Not just internally, but he'd gotten strong over the summer, and so you wince and back away, and he keeps coming at you. Because you already feel bad about even slightly pushing him once, and you will not harm this delicate boy in front of you.

He's crying and angry, and soon he has you backed into a corner with a decorative vase in his hand, and you're scared to death that he's going to fucking _kill_ you, because nobody messes with Kurt Hummel and gets away alive.

So you let out an angry sound, a growl, maybe, and you grab his lapels and smash his lips against yours, because _it's his fault, too,_ and you don't know how else to react.

And he can't help it, because it's you, and it's him, and so you mold together perfectly, and everything is normal again.

Except it's not, because when he tugs off your shirt, he doesn't slow down to make sure he doesn't rip out some of your hair with the buttons; and when he kisses you, it's rough, and bruising; and when he pulls your hair, he tries to yank it out of your head; and when he actually gets to the point and you've reached the bed, he doesn't waste time being gentle, and neither do you.

Most importantly, when it's all over, he doesn't kiss you, or talk to you. He just turns over and ignores you, and that hurts the most.

But the next day, everything is business as usual, it seems, with the kisses and the cuddling and the hugs, and so you ignore the stiffness accompanying the bruises blossoming across your chest.

And next time, when you are both gentle, and you are both loving, he does not comment on the purple that spatters across your skin. He pauses and looks at it as you take off his shirt, and he looks dazed for a second, before he snaps back into place and resumes what he's doing.

But you can forget the bruises once they are healed, and they do, as all will.

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The second time it happens, you're not quite sure what started the argument— only that it started and that you're sitting on the toilet in the bathroom, and he's hurriedly handing you wet towels to mop up some of the blood.

Part of you is mildly impressed that he was so fast with his punch, and that he actually knocked you down. Another part is occupied as he hurriedly tries to kiss away the tears and apologize, because he doesn't know what came over him and he doesn't know why he did this.

And the air is rife with _Oh, Blaine_'s and _I'm so, so, sorry's._

So part of you is registering that.

The other part of you is trying to hold onto whatever this relationship is. Because it feels like this isn't quite right, that this isn't meant to be this way.

And a part of you wonders if it's your fault.

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The seventh time is supposed to be the last time.

You saw what was happening— you weren't eating anymore, you weren't sleeping anymore, you were having nightmares.

You didn't see it coming, but you saw it arrive.

And you want to see it depart. So you talk to him.

You would have thought that would have made it all better. But it didn't.

And it sets him off, just as everything seems to these days, and suddenly you're backed up on the bed and he's tearing at your clothes, and you're begging him to _stopplease,pleasestop_ but he _isn't listening_ to you.

You suppose something broke a while ago, and that now it's just hanging there, dangling by a sliver that is Kurt, because Kurt is the deciding factor.

There are tears in your eyes as he pushes you, and you wish it would all end.

When he's finished, he leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. You cannot move to lock your door— you can taste blood on your lips and salt on your cheeks. Instead you lie there, feeling the energy burn out of you slowly.

And the next day, it's as if it never happened. The only reminders are the tear-wet eyes and the pain in your stomach, your arms, your heart. And as he kisses you slowly, you wonder if this is truly the last time.

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A/N: This totally went somewhere I didn't expect it to go… I would hate if Kurt turned into this Blaine-bashing monster…but there it is.


End file.
